The Fantastic Feminine.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIII, Issue 18, 3 November 1909, Page 62

The Fantastic Feminine.

Mrs. Wilson Woodrow contributes an article on "The Fantastic Feminine,” and Mrs. Woodrow, being a woman, ought to know all about it. Commenting on the general assertion that women suffer pain better than men, she agrees with it, but says that the proper place to learn this fact is at the corsetiere’s rather than in the hospital. It is, of course, true that women suffer pain better than men, but this is because they are inured to it, and because the sufferings caused by disease or by the Burgeon's knife are a mere bagatelle compared with the agonies that they habitually inflict upon themselves. The regular practice of self-torture dulls their capacity for pain in tfhe same way that poisons may be rendered innocuous by their constant use in augmenting doses. But to return to Mrs. Woodrow. She Bays: “Consider that thrilling dramatic moment when the cold, authoritative statement rang out, ‘Hips must go!’ If the word had been 'Ears must go!’ it would have been received as loyally, file ordered obeyed as unquestionably by the best disciplined body the world has ever seen—the votaries of fashion. “‘Hips must go!’ Without a murmur, Without even a suggestion of mutiny, the vast army of stout women moved in one mighty, acquiescent body on the corsetieres. As by magic, in answer to the demand, the supply of these experienced artists in torture increased. With out a dissenting voice the army resigned itself to the inevitable. It was magnificent, but it was not war; no, it Was martyrdom. “That is the secret of our slender |»race. Compression! Yes, but all this fat that is moulded out of sight has to go somewhere, and where does it go? One has a hideous vision of ingrowing fat. An unnecessary fear. Compression, it has been discovered, will in time eliminate the superfluous flesh: but this adipose-reducing corset which transforms the stout lady into the sylph must be worn night and day to gain results as quickly as possible, and it is built upon lines of the greatest possible resistance. The shirt of Ness us would be a most comfortable and luxurious jacket in comparison with it. It is certainly not a waistband. It is a harness. The backboards of our grandmothers were supposed to be uncomfortable. What would the dames of that era have thought if they had had to wear a skintight—oh, no, that word has lost significance!—a eoat of armour much tighter than skin, and reaching from under the arms nearly to the knees on the sides, and held firmly in place by the most elaborate system of gartering, half a dozen elastics that give not at all? The steel bands extending downward over the stomach are very broad, and some corsetieres prefer to lace up the corset along the sides of these bars, instead of in the back, claiming that they get more of the desired compression. “Is it uncomfortable? Does it hurt? “No one ever heard a woman complain. She may bite her lips and clinch ber hands and the hot tears may start, but find her harness tight? Oh, dear, no! She may be a little stout. Reluctantly she admits this; but she never wears a tight corset. She can thrust her arm right down between it and her flesh.”

The corsets may be said to inflict the more acute forms of torture, but bvery article that a woman wears is agonising in a lesser degree, or it would seem so to a man. who will use language to darken the light of the moon if he but suspects that his collar will touch bis neck if he writhes a little too far In one direction. Imagine wearing a close-fitting lace collar that has been starched until all of its innumerable points have the keenness and the rigidity of a pin. Imagine exposing the tender trnper part of the arm to the wintry wind with no other covering than a piece of muslin. Imagine the same treatment applied to the skin between the shoulders. Imagine, in fact, a hundred different things that a woman always does, any one of which would drive a man Into a delirium of frenzied profanity. The Hindu fakir who clenches his hand Until the nails grow through the back Or who wears a horsehair girdle eannot Buffer bo much as the average woman, and he suffers with more excuse, since he believes sincerely that he will gain paradise by his pain.